High fashion, low reverence

Apr 26, 2025 Features / Columnists, Peeping Tom

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Peeping Tom…

Kaieteur News- A peculiar thing has happened in the world. Once upon a time, funerals were solemn affairs. People wept. People sniffled. People wore black and looked miserable. They were supposed to. Now, it appears, people are dying just so others can have an excuse to dress up.

I attended a funeral recently—or at least I think it was a funeral. There was a hearse, a coffin, and a man of the cloth saying vaguely hopeful things about the afterlife. But everything else suggested I’d mistakenly wandered into a Vogue photoshoot that had taken a dark turn.

Now, I am not against style. I myself once owned a turtleneck that made me look like an underpaid mime. But I draw the line at stiletto heels and sequined minis at the burial ground. Somehow funerals have become the new fashion week.

Apparently, this is not unique to Guyana. A pastor in Barbados, clearly traumatized by what he saw—perhaps a mournful woman in fishnet stockings or a man in leather pants —decided to throw in the liturgical towel. “Wear what you want,” he pleaded. “Just wear something.” He didn’t say that last part out loud, but I suspect it was implied.

Traditionally, black and white were the colours of mourning. Somber tones. Respectful hues. Now we have mourners in blazing crimson, electric blue, and what can only be described as “Carnival Gold.” And this is just the men.

Women, on the other hand, are dressing like they’re auditioning for a movie role. Plunging necklines. Skirts so short they’re practically suggestions. At one service, I swear someone mistook one of the mourners for a pole dancer.

And the sunglasses! Everyone wears them. Rain or shine. Indoors or outdoors. Mourning or merely mildly inconvenienced. Entire congregations sit in dark shades, looking less like bereaved relatives and more like a Mafia summit. I’m not sure if they’re hiding tears or eye-rolling at the latest outfit to enter the pews.

Then there’s the headgear. Oversized hats, designer caps, and, in one memorable instance, a fascinator with feathers that could scare off poultry. Funerals have become a head-to-toe spectacle. And with these accessories, the question is no longer “Who died?” but “Who designed?”

Old timers are horrified. Back in their day, a funeral was about reverence, respect, and polyester suits with lapels the size of small aircraft wings. Nobody drank. Nobody danced. And nobody showed up looking like they were on their way to a beachfront cocktail party. They’re calling for a return to the basics—simple clothes, muted tones, and for heaven’s sake, covered body parts.

But alas, it may be too late. We now live in a world where fashion trumps funereal. A time when mourners wear Louis Vuitton to lament. We’re no longer burying the dead; we’re launching posthumous runway shows. And judging by the fashion budget, you’d think the deceased was a socialite and not someone whose last job was security at a hardware store.

Even funerals of known criminals—once sparsely attended for fear of guilt by association—are now the hottest events in town. Processions feature booming music, beer bottles clinking in rhythm with the bass, and mourners grinding as if to resurrect the deceased through the sheer force of choreography. You half expect the priest to shout, “Raise the roof!” mid-homily.

Respect has gone out the window. Drivers no longer yield to funeral processions; they honk. Some even try to overtake them. Hats are no longer tipped but glued on with branding labels prominently displayed. It’s less of a final farewell and more of a sponsored event.

But let’s not be hasty. Perhaps this new funeral fashion is merely an existential cry for help. A way for mourners to say: “Yes, life is fleeting, but at least my clutch matches my heels.” Maybe cleavage is a coping mechanism. Maybe the miniskirts are grief made manifest—very short, very tight grief.

Still, one cannot shake the image of some future funeral, possibly in the year 2030, when a mourner turns up in a swimsuit, sunglasses, and holding a coconut cocktail. When questioned, she’ll reply, “Darling, it’s what he would’ve wanted. He loved the beach.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe we’re the stuffy ones. Maybe in this brave new world, celebration has replaced mourning, style has substituted solemnity, and tradition is just a dusty coat no one wants to wear anymore.

But deep down, I yearn for the old funerals—the ones where silence spoke, grief was dignified, and no one’s dress required double-sided tape.

Until then, if you see a funeral procession with bass speakers, confetti, and mourners dressed like extras from The Great Gatsby, don’t be alarmed. It’s just another glamorous goodbye in the age of high-fashion funerals.

(The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of this newspaper.) 

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